


Perfectly Professional

by Sarah_M



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Season/Series 09, Smut, Tumblr Prompt, Uniform Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:01:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24997279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarah_M/pseuds/Sarah_M
Summary: She thinks it’s genuinely sweet that he insisted he would meet her at the airport—he can’t have the time for it now that he’s got stars on his shoulders. Except she realizes that what it means is now the two of them are travelling completely alone and completely unaccompanied in the back of a limousine. Honestly, what a terrible idea... one that presumes some kind of reasonable sense of self control.
Relationships: Samantha "Sam" Carter/Jack O'Neill
Comments: 66
Kudos: 166





	Perfectly Professional

**Author's Note:**

> A huge _huge_ thank you to the amazing Sharim28 for being a super speedy and incredibly patient beta. You, my magical unicorn wizard friend, are a legend for being willing to read and re-read all this smut over and over... and over. It's a burden to carry, I know.
> 
> Also thanks to the lovely Amaradangeli for submitting the prompt 'lap sitting' on Tumblr, so I could work my fic writing muscles again. I mean, this counts, right?

A string of miss-aligned work schedules means that it’s been six _very_ long and _very_ lonely weeks since they’ve seen each other.

She’s missed him.

To make it worse, someone, somewhere, decided it’d be okay to squeeze in one last late afternoon meeting at the Pentagon for her, meaning their afternoon plans together are going to be unbearably delayed.

So she thinks it’s genuinely sweet that he insisted he would meet her at the airport—he can’t have the time for it now that he’s got stars on his shoulders. Except she realizes that what it means is now the two of them are travelling completely alone and completely unaccompanied in the back of a limousine. Honestly, what a terrible idea... one that presumes some kind of reasonable sense of self control.

Drawing in a slow, deep breath, she tries to calm the itch of desire that’s been building under her skin since he’d given her a casual two fingered wave from beside their ride. Instead what she gets is a lung full of clean leather, that new car smell, and a hit of scent that has every cell in her body screaming _Jack O’Neill_ at her. Bad idea. 

Six weeks. _Six weeks_ of flirting text messages and late night phone calls (that she’s almost sure are border-line phone sex) and maybe a few too many ‘ _you look good in your uniform’_ comments from both of them. Now they have to sit across from each other in the intimately enclosed space of their ride, looking perfectly professional in those same blues, and pretend like it’s no big deal at all.

The throb between her thighs tells her she’s a liar.

The fact that he’s looking incredibly sharp in his uniform isn’t doing much to combat the warm hum of anticipation buzzing inside her.

She should have caught a cab.

Their limo slows at another set of lights in the congested afternoon traffic, and she tries to regain some composure by feigning interest in their surroundings. As if looking out of the dark tinted windows is going to stop her from wondering how much longer they’ll need to wait before they can finally get naked.

Predictably, it's not a helpful distraction; not when she can practically feel the heat of his gaze. It's enough to draw her attention back to him. And she lets herself give in… just an inch. 

What’s the harm in just looking?

Purposefully avoiding his eyes, she lingers instead on each shiny button of his jacket, travelling slowly up the length of the tie he hates wearing, until she’s wholly fixated on the place where the starchy collar of his shirt touches the skin of his neck. It’ll be hours before she’ll get the chance to taste him there. 

“Whatcha thinking about?” His question brings her back to reality.

The moment she manages to drag her eyes away from a love-bite that doesn’t exist yet and meet his gaze, she realizes two things. One is that she's so damn obvious she might as well have been staring at his belt buckle. The other is that there's absolutely no doubt he’s as turned on as she is. 

Suddenly it makes perfect sense why his service hat is settled so neatly on his lap.

It has her lips twitching with an inexplicable sense of satisfaction.

“It’s… work related,” she replies casually, unsuccessfully trying to suppress a smirk with a bite to the inside of her cheek.

He gives her a long, dubious look, followed by, “Really?” The rumble in his voice is oh-so appealing, and makes it clear in no uncertain terms that he knows _exactly_ what she’s thinking about. 

Arching an eyebrow sceptically at him, she gives him—and his uniform—an unmistakably overt once-over.

“Okay, maybe it’s a little work related,” he relents with a proper grin, and she smiles in return.

God, she’s missed him.

Then he says, “Come here,” in a tone that sends a new bloom of desire flourishing through her veins, and it feels like they are toying with something a little more dangerous than they’re used to.

“I don’t think so, sir.”

She’s not so sure the use of his honorific is going to help them at all right now.

“Why not?” The grin he’s wearing creeps into his voice.

“ _Why not?_ ” she parrots, cocking her head to the side and trying her best to deliver a look of reproach that she’s positive isn’t coming off right. “There’s at least a few good reasons.”

“I’m sure the privacy screen works,” he says, as if that’s the only problem. 

“I’m sure it does,” she nods, not entirely convinced. “You do know that you’re supposed to be a highly respectable General now.”

“I am, but my equally respectable girlfriend is in town for work, and I haven’t seen her in ages.”

She smiles at him; he’s a charming flirt and it works for her.

“She’s really hot and likes to send me dirty text messages.”

“They are not dirty.”

“Pretty sure they are.” 

Then he scrutinizes her silently, long enough to send a blush of heat creeping over her skin. She’s feeling far too hot under her uniform, and wishing to god he wasn’t only undressing her with his eyes. Shifting against the leather of the seat, she can feel the fabric of her skirt rise upwards ever-so-slightly, slipping easily against her nylon stockings.

Apparently her body is responding to dangerous... and likes it a lot.

“You’re already thinking about it,” he says, the fingers of one hand slowly popping open the buttons on his jacket with an easy sexual confidence. She swears his knees relax apart a little as he eases further back into his seat.

The entire scenario has her teeth sinking into her lower lip and her thighs pressing together, desperate to ease a little of the ache there. Neither action seems to calm her arousal at all.

It’s what, another ten, fifteen minutes of traffic at least?

Her lips suddenly feel too dry and she licks them instinctively; there’s nothing short of desire in his eyes at the action.

Are they really doing this?

Maybe it’s the heated looks they’ve been shooting each other since they slipped inside their ride, or the time apart that they’ve filled with not-so-subtle hints of all the sex they wished they could be having, or something else entirely. Because they have _never_ crossed the line at work since they got together. Not once. 

“Come here,” he says again, this time with an edge of authority in his voice, and her heart beats a little faster in her chest.

Oh boy.

“This is a bad idea,” she sighs breathily.

“Only if we get caught.”

She does a fine job of pushing the _‘Samantha Carter this is all sorts of stupid’_ thoughts to the back of her mind, ignoring the voice of reason as she moves across the cab to sit beside him. And the way he quickly tosses his service hat aside and immediately reaches for her knee tells her he’s either doing exactly the same thing, or he had this planned before he even got into the damn limo in the first place.

He hastily manoeuvres her leg over his, urging her across him until she’s all but sitting on his lap and the evidence of his arousal is pressing hard against the curve of her ass. His hands reach for hers, entwining their fingers together then brings them to rest at the hemline of her skirt. With her hands captured by his, she doesn’t have much choice but to lean her weight back against him. 

“Pull up your skirt,” he orders, quiet but firm, teasing the nylon covered skin with his fingertips.

Resting her head back into the crook of his neck, she sighs against the underside of his jaw, and pretends the metal stars imprinting the skin behind her neck doesn’t make her feel even more like she’s _his_.

Their joined fingers slide her skirt slowly up the top of her thighs, and once it’s successfully bunched around her hips she can’t help but let out a needy moan.

“Shh,” he whispers. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that stealthy is key here, Carter.” 

Stealth is something she’s good at. This, however, is a whole new territory for her. There’s an inbuilt instinct to follow orders that has her nodding anyway.

“I bet I find you wet,” he says huskily, his hand sliding up the inside of her thigh to cup her heat. Her hips roll instinctively, moving against his palm, trying to find some friction where she needs it most.

He’s a tease—she knows that—but they really don’t have time to drag this out. 

“Are we doing this or not?” she asks, breathy and impatient for his touch.

Then his fingers press hard at her center, dragging upwards and tracing a purposeful circle at her sensitive bundle of nerves along the way. It's enough to make her press her lips together to hold back another less-than-appropriate noise.

He turns his head and brushes his nose along hers affectionately. “What happened to all that ‘no sir’ attitude you were giving me before?”

Ignoring the smug remark, she lifts her hips and helps him roughly tug her stocking and panties partially down her legs.

If the driver decides to make any sharp turns there’s no way she’s going to be able to hold her balance with her legs positioned either side of his like this. But she trusts him to hold her. And the second his fingers slide through the slick heat of her folds she honestly couldn’t care less.

The contact is achingly blissful, and he must know she can’t _not_ moan, because his lips find hers, covering her mouth and stroking his tongue hotly against hers. She kisses him back; hard and desperate and full of need.

She snakes a hand up behind his neck to run her fingers through his hair and every time he touches her _just right_ she scrapes her nails against his scalp. It has him driving harder up against her and his fingers gripping her left thigh tighter and tighter; there’ll be marks there later.

“I’m going to make you come like this,” he murmurs over her lips. Two fingers tease at her entrance and then sink slowly inside her; she gasps into his mouth and he groans in response.

She shuts out the noise of the traffic around them and focuses on his fingers fucking her heat, the heel of his hand pressing on her clit, and the swell of his cock thrusting against her ass in order to bring himself off under her.

It’s risky and sexy and, damn it, if the rustle of stiff fabric and the soft clink of hard earned medals isn’t _so_ _damn_ _good_. 

There's the tell tale coil of tension building low in her belly and she can feel her thighs start to tremble involuntarily.

“Nearly there,” he rasps hot against her ear. She seriously hopes he’s talking about her impending orgasm and not their destination. Then he murmurs something dirty against the shell of her ear—something she can’t fully make out over the rushing inside her head—and tugs her earlobe between his teeth. It’s enough to send her over the edge. 

Her orgasm hits hard, sending unrelenting waves of heat coursing through her; her body jerks and clenches at his fingers inside her. She’s thankful for the hand that releases its grip on her thigh to cover her mouth instead, smothering her cry of pleasure. He’s right there with her, groaning long and low and satisfied.

Sagging back against him, she kneads her fingertips at the tense muscles behind his neck, and he presses a series of sweet kisses to her temple. 

“Remember when we used to be able to maintain some semblance of professionalism?” she huffs out, trying to catch her breath.

“Yes,” he says. “This was more fun.”

He slips his fingers out of her, with a quick and unexpected sweep over her sensitive clit.The sensation makes her jump, but not as much as their driver announcing their imminent arrival over the intercom.

Rushing to straighten their clothes proves easier for him than it does for her. All he has to do is wipe his wet fingers on her panties and button his jacket. Meanwhile she struggles to pull her damp underwear and uncooperative stockings back into place. If this breaks her stockings, he'll be buying her new ones, and he’d better hope any tears he might have made are _above_ the knee.

By the time he steps out of the car, puts on his hat and slides on his aviators, he's looking every bit the two-star General he is, and not at all like he’s just engaged in a wanton sex act. She does her best to do the same despite the wet underwear she wearing, and the uncomfortable—bordering on terrifying—thought that maybe the limo smells like sex. Or worse—that they do.

"It'll be fine, I promise," he says smoothly, clearly picking up on her unspoken concern.

She’ll bet anything that somehow he’ll do a better job than she will at acting like there’s no come in his underwear. Or maybe he’s so calm because he knows they have enough time to visit the bathroom before their meeting?

Either way, she couldn’t be more grateful that he greets everyone they meet with a sharp salute instead of shaking their hand.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not going to admit how long I agonised over picking a title, and I am sorry (not sorry) for using the word perfectly in *another* work. But look, it either had to be this... or The Art of Avoiding Handshakes. 
> 
> I suppose I could have left it with the name it was first given in my fic folder ... 'the one where Jack fingers Sam in a limo' ... but it just seems so wordy. XD


End file.
